


A Horrible Goose

by catpoop



Category: Bad Samaritan (2018), Jessica Jones (TV), Untitled Goose Game (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Psychological Warfare, Untitled Goose Game AU, kilgrave is a the goose...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 08:32:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20963567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catpoop/pseuds/catpoop
Summary: Kilgrave is a horrible goose. Cale decides to cook him for dinner.alternatively: Cale thinks it's duck-hunting season. Unfortunately for him,that's not a duck.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> calegrave has destroyed every last ounce of my impulse control... i WILL post 800-word chapters if i so desire... i will NOT edit my fic if i may wish..

Kilgrave waddles along. His neck sways happily as he sniffs the air – for anything that might catch his fancy. This is how he operates – all limbic system and hindbrain and sheer _emotion_ as he stamps stamps stamps down each street. Currently, he’s feeling voracious.

He comes across a driveway. Down it, a house. On one side, the imposing wall of a garage door. Kilgrave honks maliciously – doors always have treasures hiding behind them. He likes treasures. Likes hoarding them in piles, and swanning around – though he is but a goose – on top of said piles, wings aspread and throat loud and resonant. He honks once more. 

The door doesn’t open.

He circles the house methodically, uproots some grass, returns to the front door. The doorbell is far out of reach. He honks again.

There is just something about this house, with its walls and its doors and its driveways, that draws Kilgrave in. He wants to spread the seed of chaos. He spreads his wings instead.

Eventually, _eventually_, though how long later, he doesn’t know – the common goose does not have a comprehensive understanding of linear time – the garage door tilts upwards and eases open. He darts excitedly in.

He sees concrete wall, concrete floor, and _many_ many hanging treasures. There is also a 2018 Maserati Quattroporte GTS that drives past, but Kilgrave ignores that. He scampers forwards and eagerly grabs a pair of low-hanging pliers. 

The weight settling heavy in his beak sends a thrill of _chaos_ through his many goose veins, but it quickly transforms into fear when he hears a great creaking. He looks up, neck straining with the pliers, to see the garage door lower.

_Oh great goose heavens above!_ He thinks. _Fuck!_

He had locked himself in a garage once before, and try as he might he can’t remember how he got out of that situation. Feathers ruffling in anxiety, Kilgrave narrows into his most aerodynamic form and pap-paps towards the increasingly narrowing gap beneath the door.

He makes it through just in time, but only because of the hoarse honk spilling from his beak that forces him to drop the pliers. Suddenly unburdened, he sprints to freedom.

Once the door seamlessly eases shut behind him, Kilgrave pauses. He’s _free_ – but he’s now faced with that same dilemma as earlier. He’s outside of the door. And there are treasures behind it.

One Cale Erendreich had been in that 2018 Maserati Quattroporte GTS. The same Cale Erendreich returns in the car half a day later, and though he doesn’t see the goose outside, he notices the pliers immediately. Or rather, the lack thereof. A space on his wall demarcated by tools, sitting keenly empty. 

He feels a brow twitch. Reflex pivots him on the spot, eyes widening angrily as they track every corner of the garage, looking for the thief. Unfortunately, there is no thief in the room with him. 

However, on a thorough scour of the garage floor, Cale spots the pliers, sitting innocently by the door and waiting to be returned to their spot. He picks them up, lips twisting with disgust and conflict, and carefully hangs them back up.

The wall looks once more pristine, but Cale _knows_ what happened. He swallows back bile, double-checks that the car is locked, and strides into the house. There are exactly four dozen security cameras rigged up in his house, and he won’t know peace until he’s scanned every one.

It takes, as it turns out, a little fewer than forty-eight cameras to catch the culprit. He releases a tight exhale upon seeing the criminal _waddle_ across the screen. Right. It’s duck-hunting season _somewhere_, Cale reasons. 

He has a stockpile of shotguns for this very – well not _exactly_ – reason, and he will finish off the job right there and then. And after that, a stress-free evening for himself.

This, of course, is where Cale goes wrong. It may be duck-hunting season somewhere on the planet, but it is not yet goose-hunting season. And for him, it never will be.

He loads a shotgun, and steps onto the front step of his property. The bird was sitting idly by the driveway when he last checked, and it is still there when he aims his gun.

“Got you, you little shit,” he hisses through his teeth. His finger tightens on the trigger, but just as it’s about to depress, the loudest, most excruciating noise Cale has ever heard rings out across the neighbourhood. The shock is enough to paralyse his hands, and the shotgun clatters to the ground. He makes eye-contact.

Beady black eyes glint back at him.

“That’s not a duck,” he whispers. “That’s _not a duck!_” 

Cale has barely enough time to grab the shotgun and run back inside when another deafening honk rings out. He clamps a palm over one ear in pain.

Once inside, he rolls to halt. The silence within all but highlights the pounding of his heart, the tinny ringing in his ears. He wipes clammy sweat from his palms, distractedly inspects the shotgun for any scratches, and thinks about the _hell-beast_ outside. What did it want with his pliers? Cale thinks. What does it want with _him?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes: duck & goose-hunting season occur around the same time. This However Is The Fictional World And I Deem This Fact Irrelevant  
me, chuckling to myself: kilgrave doesn't comprehend time but he can immediately identify the make model and year of cale's car


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the support so far!

Cale Erendreich is a man of many skills, if he may say so himself. Unfortunately, one of those skills is the relentless and unswerving ability to _worry._ He barricades himself within the house, keeps an eye on the cameras pointed at his driveway, and worries. What if the creature decides to wreak havoc upon more of his belongings? Can he even defend himself? What if it steps foot into his house? 

Cale shudders at the thought, shiver running down his spine and gooseflesh stippling his arms. He feels, distinctly, sick.

He foregoes dinner to track the bird, following it down the driveway, then into the street, then back up to peck at his front door. The faint tapping is an entire two floors down from his bedroom, but Cale swears he can hear it regardless. It is a sleepless night.

It is a sleepless night also for Kilgrave. This, however, is normal, fuelled as he is by raw goose power and a blatant disregard for cyclical time. He stamps around some more, mapping out the house with his prey within.

Four walls. Adjoining garage. Front steps leading to front entrance. Back wall opening onto spacious backyard walled off by rocky ramparts. Because he is feeling peckish, Kilgrave focuses on the lawn, tugging first suspiciously then eagerly at the fresh green blades. He stops when his belly is full, but only for a moment. If he can uproot one patch of grass, he thinks deviously, then why doesn’t he pluck the lawn entirely bare?

The part of his brain reserved for higher cognitive thinking is also planning a way to trick his unlucky victim into going outside, but right now, Kilgrave-the-goose is content. He has grass, he has mischief, and he has great dirt-filled ulcers spreading across a once-pristine lawn.

Cale wakes up in the morning to see this sight from his bedroom window. To say he curses in anger is an understatement. It is more of a deep, primal growl, the kind reminiscent of apex predators and very angry men. He is a _human being!_ he thinks, _A murderer and serial killer and admittedly decent game hunter._

And one small bird has a lot more to fear from him that he does from it.

It is with this false bravado that Cale goes about his day, suppressing what had happened just yesterday and forcing his focus back onto his actual responsibilities. The one thing he can’t suppress, however, is the mess that has been made of his backyard. With a sigh, he rings the nearest landscaper’s.

They send a man almost immediately, and Cale tracks the stranger’s movements from within the living room, where he sequesters himself after minimal introduction. 

“Wow, what’s been doing all that digging?” The man had remarked. Cale shut down the conversation immediately.

“I’d rather not say.”

“Oh.”

He watches the man now, twitch in his cheek from where his molar is pulling at flesh. The stress of watching someone meander around his property weighs heavy on his shoulders, and when those same shoulders are stiff with lack of sleep and poorly-concealed fear… Cale Erendreich is not, currently, a happy man.

The sudden tap-tapping that starts up at his front door does not improve his mood. _Why not use the damn doorbell?_ he wonders. Or better yet – why not leave him alone so that he can properly dedicate his attention to this stranger on his property?

He answers the door regardless. There is nobody there. Cale stiffens at the revelation, eyes darting back and forth before something wills him to look down. 

He looks down, and lying there on his doormat is a single, dirt-speckled shovel. The landscaper’s. 

_I told that man to stay in the backyard,_ Cale fumes. If he can’t trust the man to follow the most basic of instructions – what can he trust him with? With this thought in mind, he stoops to pick up the shovel, pulls the door shut behind him, and strides to the backyard to give the man a proper piece of his mind.

Kilgrave hears the shouting even through the solid walls of the house, but he quickly tunes it out in favour of properly exploring this new residence. _His_ new abode, if he may deem it such (and he does). His feet patter satisfactorily on polished hardwood flooring and he surveys the interior of every room with a proud, swaying movement of his head. 

The living room, with adjoining kitchen. He knocks over a horse figurine while clambering onto the couch. The cushions bounce well. If he bounces high enough, he can extend both wings and flap over to the kitchenette, to land sprawling against another horse figurine. It, too, falls over and shatters. 

Kilgrave hops to the sink, turns the tap on and off, and is just about to raid the knife block when he hears the front door slam shut. He ducks onto the ground, out of view behind the counter.

The man is talking to himself. “Damn _gardeners...”_ The near-inaudible muttering follows him into the lounge area, until something stops him in his path. 

“What the fuck.”

Kilgrave eagerly pokes his neck out from his hiding spot to see what has inspired such visceral fear and pain in this human’s voice. It’s the first horse figurine. He preens at his achievement, puffing up further when the man turns around to see the shattered remains of his second figurine.

_Serves you right for having so many,_ Kilgrave thinks.

“What the – what the fuck.”

The terror in his voice has multiplied, to sufficient levels that Kilgrave deems it appropriate to finally leap out.

“Blaarhghhghgh!” He bellows, and the screech he receives in reply is as sweet a victory as any. But of course, his job is far from complete. Fluffing his feathers, Kilgrave makes a beeline for the staircase and disappears upstairs.

In his wake, Cale is left clutching his chest, other hand tightly gripped around a shard of porcelain. He shakily sets it down, and a smear of blood comes away.

_What the fuck?_ he repeats once more, now silently. It takes a second for the shock to abate enough that he remembers where the villain had gone. The chaos around him urges Cale to stay and clean up, but he shakes himself and all but sprints up the stairs. 

There’ll be more chaos to come if he doesn’t rid his house of this unwanted intruder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> typed the word figurine far too many times in this

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
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